Alaska By Wanda Deglane


He says, I hear Alaska’s nice this time of year.
His fingers trace absent-minded circles around and around the flesh under my skirt.

He says, I’m going to marry you someday, watch,
as he looks at me hungrily, dark-lit coals for eyes.

He says, Weakness is what kills you, sweetie.
Kindness, honesty, caring, having those morals and shit. All weaknesses.

He eyes me carefully from the balcony. Says,
I didn’t mean to grab your throat, and let my fingers curl around it. You wouldn’t call me a liar,

Would you?

He says, If you look at another guy again,
I’ll rip your throat out.

I learn to use makeup at nearly fifteen, the morning after. Covering up the night before.
Drawing thick black lines across my eyelids to look as if I hadn’t been punched in the face.

He says, If there were more of you, I’d take that, too.
He says, Your weakness feeds me.

And I’m still hungry.

He says, I am the sun.
You’ll never see anything else.

He says, We’re going to be high school sweethearts,
Don’t you just love that?

He says, How would you like to go with me to Alaska?

Originally published on Spider Mirror in December of 2017

By Wanda Deglane


Wanda Deglane is a freshman at Arizona State University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology. Her poetry has been published on Spider Mirror, and is forthcoming from Veronica, Porridge Magazine, and elsewhere. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and lives with her huge family in Glendale, Arizona. When she isn’t writing, she paints and spends time with her dog, Princess Leia.

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